


Broken Promises

by dragonQuill907



Series: Promises [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Abandonment, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Julia, POV Original Female Character, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, S1 spoilers, Unrequited Love, s2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events that took place before the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Julia Lloyd.<br/>Thanks to Ariane DeVere's lovely transcripts! I can't imagine the work she must've put into them. They're a great source for writing fanfiction, if you didn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Years, Two Months, and Three Days Before

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, everybody! Here is the prequel for Promise of Home (which was previously A Wicked and Wild Wind). You can read either one first; I suppose it doesn't really matter. Anyway, there will be more tags in the notes that are specific to each chapter. Thanks to you all for keeping with the story!  
> No serious tags for this chapter.

“Sherlock, how’s the flat search going?”

The detective sighed and raised his eyes heavenward. Mike Stamford, an acquaintance of his, stood by his own microscope, peering into it carefully. The good-natured man jotted down a few words in a small notebook and glanced up at Sherlock.

“Not well,” Sherlock finally replied.

“A flat in London costs quite a bit these days, no?”

“The only way I’d be able to afford it is with a flatshare,” admitted Sherlock.

“Do you-”

“I find it hard to believe I could find another human being tolerable enough to live with them for any period of time.”

“Well, you’d be surprised.”

“Me?” Sherlock scoffed. “Surprised? Hah. Besides, who’d want me for a flatmate?”

“I’m sure someone will come around,” Mike replied.

Sherlock hummed, hoping Mike would get the hint and stop talking. He was saved by Molly, who walked into the room with a clipboard in her hand.

“I’m all ready for you, Sherlock. Er, the body, that is. It’s ready.”

“Good. Mike, I’m afraid I have matters to attend to.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock followed Molly out of the lab without another word. Once in the morgue, he unzipped the body bag, excitement running rampant through his head.

“Let’s start with the riding crop.”

He looked up, feeling irritated at the blush creeping up Molly’s face. Really, the girl’s insipid crush was starting to get on his nerves. It was child’s play to manipulate her emotions to benefit himself. It had actually grown so boring and so tedious that he only did it when he absolutely had to do it. Molly was a sort of friend to Sherlock - as much of a friend as the self-proclaimed sociopath could have. He had been hoping for months now that her infatuation with him would ebb, but Sherlock had always had the worst of luck. Not that Sherlock believed in things as silly as luck.

The detective spent nearly twenty minutes going at the body with the riding crop, after which he made his way back to the lab. He was examining a chip of green paint found under the victim’s fingernail when the doors opened. Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh before he realized that there were two people, not one.

“Mike,” he said, looking up from his work, “can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“What’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock replied immediately. He couldn’t help but glance at the man Stamford had brought to visit. Army doctor, invalided home, psychosomatic limp. Coming in right after Sherlock mentioned a flatshare? Obviously a potential candidate, Sherlock decided.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

“Er, here,” the man offered. “Use mine.”

His voice was… strangely calming. Sherlock swallowed and stood. “Oh. Thank you.”

“It’s an old friend of mine,” Mike explained. “John Watson.”

Sherlock took a moment to observe the man standing before him. Graying blond hair, dark blue eyes, a bit shorter than Sherlock himself. John seemed horrifyingly, well, ordinary. But Sherlock didn’t think that was the case. He decided he’d have to get to the bottom of John Watson, starting with…

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?”

“Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?” repeated Sherlock, glancing up at dark blue eyes. He returned his attention to the phone, swallowing hard.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know-?”

“Ah, Molly. Coffee. Thank you.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s and smirked, knowing that he’d managed to capture the other man’s interest. He closed the phone and handed it back. If their fingers brushed, Sherlock definitely didn’t notice.

Molly left the lab, letting out an squeaky, “Okay.”

“How do you feel about the violin?”

There was a pause as John figured out that yes, Sherlock was indeed talking to him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking.” Sherlock turned to him, carefully keeping his face blank. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” At this, he threw his best people-pleasing smile at the man.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he’d managed to fool him.

“Oh, you- you told him about me.”

Mike shook his head. “Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John demanded, turning back to him.

Sherlock smirked, throwing on his coat. “I did.”

He walked while he talked, not really paying attention to what was coming out of his mouth. There were things he had to do, and, unfortunately, people he had to see. It wouldn’t do to be late and prolong the whole thing. John scoffed, and he stopped cold.

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go look at a flat?”

“Problem?” Sherlock drawled. Really, as much as he would like to stay in the lab all day, he actually did have to get going.

John huffed out a small laugh, an astonished smile tugging at his lips. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering the man currently swimming in disbelief. He really shouldn’t, he thought. If he wanted any chance of John being his flatmate, he shouldn’t deduce him.

Sometimes, however, Sherlock’s brain would override his body, and he would spit out the first thing that came to mind. He honestly wasn’t expecting the waterfall of deductions to flow out of his mouth so easily.

He fought the urge to wince after it was done. John adjusted his leg nervously, gripping his cane. Sherlock swallowed and attempted to rectify the situation before John could fully realize exactly how much of a freak he was.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street,” he supplied, winking. Oh, God, why did he wink?

He said farewell to Mike and walked out the door calmly, pointedly not sprinting down the hallways in order to put as much space between him and John as possible. Sherlock absently wondered if he would ever get over the awkwardness that seemed to have settled between them.

He hoped so.

~*~

“Julia,” her mother said, “we’re leaving. Pack a bag. You have ten minutes.”

Julia froze in the doorway, her backpack still slung over one shoulder. She swallowed and adjusted the strap uneasily.

“Mother, where are we going?” the girl asked slowly.

“Don’t question me. What did I say, Julia?”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“Quit dawdling. Eight minutes. Go."

Julia ran down the hall to her room, ignoring her mother’s muttering. She rifled through her drawers, throwing random articles of clothing into the duffel bag that was kept in her closet. Her mother hadn’t told her where she was going, so she decided to pack all kinds of clothes. T-shirts and jumpers, cotton shorts and jeans, it all went into the bag.

Julia looked around her room frantically, trying to decide what comfort she could take with her. She grabbed her stuffed giraffe and tossed it into the bag. She rooted under her mattress until she found the notebook and some pencils she'd hidden there. A half-read book, _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ , was a must-have. She held it to her chest as her mother called out.

"One more minute, Julia, and I'm checking on what you've packed."

She swallowed. What would she need, what would she need? Julia ran her hands through her hair, wracking her brain.

Oh! That was it. A hairbrush. She grabbed a few elastics as well, wondering belatedly if her bag would actually close.

Quiet footsteps echoed in the quiet house, moving towards Julia's room. The girl took a deep breath and steeled herself as the door opened.

"I'm ready, Mother."

Her mother said nothing. She eyes her duffel bag and looked at Julia coldly.

Julia clenched her fists by her side, chewing on her lip as her mother tore through her bag. Half of her clothing ended up strewn about her floor. Her mother froze, holding up the color paperback Julia had stashed at the bottom, praying for it to remain hidden. So much for that.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded. “Who gave this to you? It was your father, wasn’t it?”

“No, Mother. A friend gave-”

“A friend?” her mother laughed. “You don’t have friends.”

“Mother, I-”

“I work hard to send you to a good school. I feed you, clothe you, shelter you, and this is how you repay me? By filling your head with this filth? Disgusting.”

Julia’s mother removed her bookmark and threw the book on the floor.

“Mummy, no!” Julia cried. “I’m not finished!”

Her mother glared at her. “What did you say?”

Julia’s stomach dropped. She felt tears burn behind her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother. It won’t happen again.”

“You ungrateful little brat. You won’t ever learn respect, will you?”

“Mother, I-”

“Shut up,” the blonde woman ordered, grabbing her daughter’s thin bicep. She pushed her towards the door. “Take your bag.”

Julia knew better than to speak again. She was silent as her mother made a quick call, and they left their house without another word. There was a car stalled at the end of the block. Julia’s mother walked up to it confidently and tapped on the window three times. She pushed the young girl inside the car and snapped at the driver.

“Go.”

The man drove, and drove, and drove. He drove until Julia began to wonder if they were just going in circles. The car stopped abruptly, and they climbed out. They walked for three blocks, Julia rushing to keep up with her mother.

“If you don’t hurry up, I will throw that bag and everything in it into the next bin we pass.”

Julia swallowed but remained silent.

“We’ll start with this,” her mother said, pausing and unzipping the bag.

She brought out Julia’s sketchbook. Since she was only ten and no Michelangelo, the inside was littered with flowers, hearts, and stormclouds. There were a lot of stormclouds. Julia watched numbly as her mother dropped the book into a garbage bin.

“Are you going to keep up now?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Good.”

Julia walked alongside her mother, looking up at her nervously. She said nothing as her mother pulled her into another cab.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” said the driver. “Do you have the time?”

“Half past ten,” her mother replied. “Soon to be eleven.”

Julia looked at the clock that was in plain view of the cabbie. It read quarter to four.

“Terrible weather we’re having, no?”

“Dreadful.”

Julia glanced out the window. Clouds were virtually nonexistent, and the sun kissed her skin.

“Here,” her mother said twenty minutes later. “Julia, don’t move.”

“Mother?”

“Do as I say,” the woman replied, grabbing her overnight bag and exiting the cab. “Do something right for once.”

Julia watched uneasily as her mother walked off. It seemed like hours passed by, although Julia was sure it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. She observed the people on the street. The woman with the beanie was struggling through university. Her clothes, age, and state of her shoes determined this. Not to mention the black back pack overflowing with books and paper. The redheaded girl and her blond boyfriend were fighting; they walked close enough for their arms to brush not didn’t take the other’s hand.

Julia snapped out of her head as the cab started to move.

“My mother isn’t back yet,” Julia said, panicking. “You have to wait for her. Sir? Sir!”

“Listen, kid, you gotta shut up and stay quiet, or I’ll come back there and make you.”

Julia closed her mouth, her teeth clicking. The car was silent for a good ten minutes. They hadn’t stopped driving. Julia wondered if her mother was looking for her. She didn’t know where they were or where they were going. She wouldn’t be much help.

“What… what’s your name? Where are we going?”

The driver sighed. “My name is Sebastian Moran. We’re going away.”

“Are you kidnapping me?”

“Why would I want you? No, think of it as prolonged babysitting.”

“What about my mother?”

“She knows you’re here.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Only if you prove to be more problematic than you’re worth.”

Julia chewed her lip. Those seemed like those were the best conditions she was going to get.


	2. Four Years, Eight Months, Twenty-One Days Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events that took place before the Meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Julia Lloyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some spoilers for the pool scene from The Great Game in Sherlock's point of view.  
> Also, in Julia's point of view there is brief violence against a minor. (I don't know if I worded that correctly. Oh well. Just be aware.)

The flash drive was his only bargaining chip. Sherlock knew that Moriarty wanted it, but that did nothing to calm the jumble of nerves in his stomach.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,” he called into the empty room. His voice echoed off the walls. How disconcerting. “That’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance - all to distract me from this.”

Sherlock froze, his breath in his throat. His crystalline eyes were trained on none other than John Watson, the fur on the hood of his brown parka framing his head.

“John.” The name rushed out of Sherlock in one breath.

He couldn’t talk. He, Sherlock Holmes, couldn’t gather enough air for a single coherent thought to leave his mouth. Sherlock’s brain, normally crystal clear and precise, was running wild. At least forty-eight different thoughts crossed his mind at once, and with those thoughts came sub-thoughts, and with those sub-thoughts came sub-sub-thoughts, and Sherlock had never hated his mind more than he did at that moment.

John was Moriarty. He was the criminal mastermind Sherlock had been playing against. It had been a trick, everything they'd been, everything Sherlock had hoped they would be. John was standing by the pool, his hands in his pockets, his eyes boring into Sherlock.

“Evening. This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John…”

“Bet you never saw this coming.”

And Sherlock realized that he had never been more wrong. John would never betray him; the doctor was unceasingly loyal. There was someone else here, someone dangerous. The detective scanned the pool, finding no one besides himself and his friend. Sherlock had never been more relieved to be so incorrect.

His stomach dropped when he saw the bomb strapped to John's chest.

No, Sherlock despaired mentally. No, not now. We’re still so new. Don’t take this away from me now.

“What would you like me to make him say next?”

White hot fury washed over Sherlock like a tidal wave. Moriarty could play all the games he wanted; Sherlock would happily solve them. He could kidnap Sherlock, poison him, beat him, hell, even kill him one day, but Moriarty did not get to touch his flatmate. The other genius was not to lay a finger on his John.

“Gottle o’ geer. Gottle o’ geer. Gottle o’ geer.” John’s voice cracked on the last word.

Sherlock couldn’t take it. John - his John, his only friend, his best friend - shouldn’t have been brought into this at all. This was between Sherlock and Moriarty. John had nothing to do with their game; he should be at Baker Street right now, sitting in his chair and wondering where in the world Sherlock had gotten off to this time.

“Stop it,” Sherlock seethed.

“Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him,” John recited. He obviously resisted the urge to grimace with the next phrase. “I can stop John Watson too.”

Sherlock stared blankly at the laser pointer trained on John’s chest.

No.

“Stop his heart.”

Sherlock spun around, searching wildly for whoever could be controlling the gun. He didn’t care if he got hurt; Sherlock was going to kill every last one of them, if it was the last thing he did.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

A door creaked open behind him, and Sherlock whipped around to glare at it.

“I gave you my number,” a lilted Irish voice called out. “I thought you might call.”

Jim, Molly’s gay boyfriend, stepped out into the light of the room. Sherlock swallowed.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” he asks, smirking, “or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Both,” Sherlock replies without thinking. Oh, well. He could’ve done worse.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi-i,” Moriarty sang.

Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh defeatedly. He didn't want to deal with Moriarty anymore. He just wanted John to be safe.

The more Moriarty talked, the more insane Sherlock realized he actually was.

"People have died," the detective said, thinking of John and his outburst the other day.

"That's what people DO!"

"I will stop you," Sherlock promised.

"No, you won't."

Sherlock forced himself to look away from Moriarty for a moment. He glanced at John instead, briefly cataloging his injuries. None seemed too dire.

"You all right?"

Moriarty laughed. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead"

John merely nodded in his direction.

"Take it."

"What? Oh, that!" the criminal exclaimed, plucking the flash drive from Sherlock’s fingers. "The missile plans."

With that, he tossed the plastic into the pool.

"Boring!" he sang. "I could've got those anywhere."

At that moment, with Moriarty focused solely on Sherlock, John leapt forward and wrapped an arm around Moriarty’s chest and neck.

“Sherlock, run!”

“Good,” Moriarty praised. If Sherlock hadn’t been so in control of his base urges, he would’ve vomited at the sight of the twisted enjoyment in the psychopath’s eyes.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up,” John reminded him, if a bit unhelpfully.

“Isn’t he sweet?” asked Moriarty. “I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal. But, oops! You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”

He smiled.

Sherlock waited for something to happen. He swallowed and adjusted his grip on John’s gun. Moriarty had last addressed the doctor, who only tightened his grip on the lankier man. He sighed, rolling his eyes and sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Give him a minute, will you? Apparently I surround myself with _idiots_!” he yelled. “You know how that feels, don’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but the look on John’s face froze him. The other man was staring at something on his forehead. Of course. Moriarty would have more than one accomplice here. John reluctantly let go of him and backed away, his hands in the air.

“Dear God, you buffoon. What the hell took you so long?”

There was no answer, but Moriarty continued talking as if there had been.

“It was the girl, wasn’t it?” he griped. “I told you to get rid of her. You’re even more useless now than you were before, and that’s saying something _big_ , you imbecile!”

Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth, growing impatient. Too bad he couldn’t just pull the trigger and walk away. No, he and John would die with Moriarty if he did that.

“I’m the most dangerous man in Britain. How do you think this makes me look? Hm? I finally get to have a _chat_ with Sherlock Holmes, and one of my idiot employees is LATE! Of course, I probably shouldn’t expect you to understand something so amazingly simple.”

Sherlock felt slightly sick. Moriarty turned to him and smiled, his slicked back hair glinting in the fluorescent lighting of the pool.

The madman brushed his hands over his suit, muttering, “Westwood.”

And then they talked. Moriarty threatened him, threatened to burn him, and Sherlock knew he meant John. He pushed down the panic that rose in his throat when he realized that his _heart_ was John. Moriarty would burn _John_.

Sherlock would rather die than let him do that.

~*~

Julia said nothing as Moran pushed her into a spare bedroom of the crumbling old house they were using as shelter. She stumbled through the doorway and landed on her hands and knees. Righting herself quickly, Julia turned to face Moran and backed away slowly.

The man scoffed. “I have things to do. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning. Stay here. Do not leave this room under any circumstances.”

“What if the house is on fire?”

“Then burn with it,” Moran spat. “See if I give a damn whether you live or die.”

“But-”

“You’re still here because your mother would have my hide if she knew you were dead and I was responsible.”

Julia took comfort in the fact that her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in more than a year, still cared.

Moran slammed the door behind him, and it rattled on its hinges. The sound of an engine starting came from outside the boarded window. Julia counted the seconds until she reached six hundred. Ten minutes had gone by before Julia stood, stretched and walked around the room. She started counting again, backwards from six hundred.

It was good to mix things up every now and then, to keep her mind sharp. She only messed up seven or eight times.

After Julia was certain half an hour had passed, she crept slowly out of the room. She tiptoed down the stairs, as if Moran were just around the corner. The house creaked under her feet, each sound driving worry deeper and deeper into her heart.

Her hand was on the knob of the back door, and she could taste freedom on the back of her tongue. Julia opened it slowly, relishing the slight breeze that stirred her hair. She walked slowly out to the middle of the yard, the overgrown grass tickling her bare ankles. She breathed in, clearing the musty air of the rotting house from her lungs. Her ratty shoes and socks were gone in seconds, tucked neatly into the doorway of the house.

Julia laughed, her toes digging in to wet soil. She inhaled once more, the smell of rain and earth making its way through her body, energizing her.

She could do anything out there.

"What the hell are you doing?"

She would die out there.

There was no excuse to be made. Julia followed obediently as Moran grabbed her arm and literally dragged her inside.

"I leave for forty-five minutes," he muttered to himself. "You could have at least waited another hour. Stupid little ass."

Julia whimpered. Moran was digging his fingers into her skin. He slammed the door as soon as Julia’s feet crossed the threshold. He pushed her to the floor and scowled down at her. Willing the tears on her face to dry, Julia clambered hastily to her feet and backed away. Moran stepped towards her, an evil glint in his eye.

“Are you too stupid to follow those simple instructions? Or did you deliberately disobey me?”

Julia shook her head.

“No,” she answered softly. “I just wanted to go outside.”

The man wrenched Julia to her feet and slapped her hard, hard enough to break skin. Julia gasped as she felt something oozing from her eyebrow. Blinking blood and tears from her eyes, she struggled to crawl away from the man advancing towards her.

“You- you can’t hurt me. My mother-”

“Your mother doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“You’re lying.”

Moran scoffed. “She left you here. If she cared about you at all, don’t you think she would’ve come back for you?”

Julia swallowed. As much as she hated to admit it, Moran was right. Her mother hadn’t shown her face since that day in the cab. Surely, she would’ve come back by now. She would’ve come back. Julia briefly wondered if her mother was dead, but shook that thought out of her head. Moran would’ve gotten rid of her.

“She has to come back.”

Moran smiled, a sickeningly unfamiliar look on the man.

“I wouldn’t come back for you. Then again, I’ve never been one for useless burdens.”

The words tung almost as much as the wound on her face. She didn’t care what Moran thought of her, but did he have to use her mother’s words?

“If I’m late,” Moran growled, “you’re going to pay for holding me up. You understand?”

Instead of waiting for an answer, Moran took out a cigarette, lit it, and sucked on the end. Smoke billowed out of his nostrils like a dragon. Julia was still as he walked past her, and she was still as he flicked ashes onto her face.


	3. Three Years, One Month, and Sixteen Days Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events that took place before the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Julia Lloyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, there's mention of self-harm in this chapter, but it's not too graphic.

Sherlock glared at John’s feet.

“Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

The detective flipped over on the couch and wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself.

“Nothing,” he said.

_You’re wearing your date shoes,_ he thought.

He wasn’t unused to John going out on dates. It happened often enough, the girls popping by after their fourth or fifth date and quickly deciding that they weren’t ready to put up with Sherlock. They weren’t heard from often after that.

“Are you sure? I could call Robin, tell her that I can’t-”

“No, John. Go. I’ll be fine.”

John didn’t say anything for a while. Sherlock imagined the doctor was flexing his hands like he did when he was nervous or frustrated.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen and twenty. Sherlock began to hope that John had actually canceled his date in order to be with Sherlock as he sulked. Of course, Sherlock would stop sulking if John canceled his date. That, or if Lestrade texted him with a case he could use to take his mind off things.

Neither seemed likely at this time of evening, but Sherlock hoped nonetheless.

His heart sunk when he heard the creak of John’s chair as he stood.

“All right, Sherlock. If you’re sure you’re fine, I’ll be heading out now.”

“Goodbye, John.”

It was so easy for Sherlock to be crushed these days. It was so easy to hurt him. All John had to do was go out on a date, or deny their relationship to restaurant owners, or just blatantly flirt with women. He only had to smile that brilliant smile at Sherlock from across the room for Sherlock’s heart to wail.

Even John’s litanies of “Brilliant,” or “Fantastic!” made Sherlock feel sick. It warmed his whole chest, coating first his heart, then his ribs and his lungs until he thought he couldn’t breathe he was so consumed by his affections for John Watson. After the heat came the cold. The sudden realization that John could never love someone like Sherlock - the one he had every time the warmth overcame him - would chill his heart and ribs and lungs until he was sure he would freeze to death right then and there.

Sherlock was always dying, always healing, always hurting for John Watson. It had always been for John, and it always would be. Sherlock was happy to suffer this way because it wasn’t really suffering, was it? Not if John was still his friend.

Sherlock sulked for nearly an hour and a half before deciding to just take a shower and try to sleep. If there was nothing to engage his brain, why shouldn’t he turn it off for a while? There was no point in remaining conscious if there wasn’t a case to solve or an experiment to do. Even if he couldn’t sleep, his bed was a much more comfortable place to wallow in self-pity than the couch was.

Sherlock had just gotten into the shower when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. He quickly scrubbed himself down and poured shampoo onto his hair. John walked past the loo and into the kitchen as Sherlock rinsed the soap from his curls. He stepped out from under the warm spray of water and grabbed a towel.

Sherlock sighed when he realized he had forgotten a shirt. He tugged on his pants and pajama bottoms, deciding it wouldn't scar John for life if he walked out of the loo shirtless. The detective was just grateful he had been lucky enough to have pants.

He walked out of the bathroom just as John walked out of the kitchen. The shorter man froze in front of him.

"Hello, John," Sherlock greeted. "Good date?"

John swallowed. "Yeah. Um. I'm gonna head up to bed."

Sherlock blushed under John's gaze. He felt his neck turn red despite his efforts to keep calm. "All right. Goodnight, John."

He turned into his own room as John turned to the sitting room. When he was sure John was upstairs, Sherlock crept out of his bedroom and flopped down on the couch. He stared at the ceiling.

It must’ve been around two in the morning when Sherlock was jolted out of his Mind Palace. A shout came from upstairs. Sherlock closed his eyes again and sighed. He wished John would stop having nightmares. It wasn’t that they inconvenienced Sherlock all that much. John would simply sleep so much better, and then have more patience when it came to Sherlock and his experiments. Really, his stress levels would go down considerably. Both of them would be much happier.

There was a thump as John’s headboard banged against the wall. Sherlock stood up and grabbed his violin. He nestled the instrument under his chin and closed his eyes. A few weeks of experimentation had proven that the song that worked the best was one of Bach’s simpler pieces. The notes came to Sherlock easily, and he played loudly enough to wake John.

Suddenly, it went quiet. Sherlock kept playing, swaying to the music he was coaxing out of the instrument at his shoulder. There was no sound from the room upstairs. Sherlock imagined John, covered in sweat and breathing heavily, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. The detective wanted to climb the stairs and knock on John’s door. He wanted to sit next to John and hold his hands until the doctor calmed down. He longed to run his hands through sandy blond hair and taste-

Sherlock cut himself off. It wouldn’t do to dwell on things as impossible as that.

Ten minutes after John had silenced, Sherlock let the music drift off. He put his violin back in his case and trudged back to his room.

The next morning, John and Sherlock sat at the table in the kitchen. John drank his tea in silence. Sherlock ate a few bites of toast and wrote some observations of the experiment he’d been doing last night in his notebook.

“Er, Sherlock,” John said. He flexed his fingers. “I, um, wanted to thank you.”

“For what, John? I haven’t done anything.”

“Right. Okay.”

They didn’t talk about it again.

~*~

Julia shivered. It wasn’t forced; she was freezing. Her sweatpants were too short. They had been for a while now. While she’d only lost weight so far on her journeys with Moran, she’d gotten a lot taller. Once a four-feet seven-inch ten-year-old, Julia was now a little over five feet tall. She used to envy the taller girls in her classes, but now she thought of her height only as an inconvenience. It was harder to fit into small hiding spots.

It was also harder to convince people to give her money.

Julia sat on a street corner, huddled as close as she could get to the red brick building next to her. She gripped a metal can in her cold fingers. The few coins in it rattled as she shook.

She couldn’t feel her feet.

“Please,” she croaked, watching businessmen and women walk by. Moran had picked a good corner. So many people walked by that even if every fifth person gave only one euro, they’d end up with hundreds at the end of the day.

Then, Julia could take a few euros, hide it in her duffel, and use it to buy a Seether CD she had her eye on. She almost had enough money.

Julia had never listened to the band, but the album cover looked really interesting. It was a girl - at least, Julia thought it was a girl - with white hair and pure black eyes. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and smeared with something that looked almost like blood. Julia thought it could’ve been rust, too, considering the golden metal rods coming out of her face.

Yes, the album cover was weird. It was really weird. But Julia liked it, so she would save up enough money to buy it.

“Do you have any change?” she whimpered. “Please, I’ll take anything.”

Men and women looked at Julia and frowned. She was dirtying their streets. It wasn’t as if she wanted to be there. It wasn’t her fault Moran wanted to use her for money. She was just glad he pretty much ignored her the rest of the time.

Well, when he wasn’t digging his fingers into her shoulders or a cigarette into her forearm, he ignored her. He ignored her when her stomach rumbled, when she coughed like hell that time she got a cold, when she cried after finally dragging a blade across her skin for the first time.

She’d stolen it from Moran’s backpack. It was just a switchblade, simple enough to use. Moran had been furious with her for stealing it, but he’d seen her blood on it and knew. He laughed at her and smiled that horrible, evil smile. It made Julia’s stomach turn over.

A woman with curly red hair dropped two euros into her can.

“God bless,” Julia responded. She hated lying to people like this, but she had to do it. It was the only way Moran would have enough money to feed her. Usually he would give her around twenty euros or rubles or pesos for however long they were in a certain country, and Julia would have to make it work. At least she paid for her own food.

Moran used most of his money on hookers.

Julia hated when he had company. She would curl up on her makeshift mattress, covering her ears with her hands. She would hum to herself, trying to drown out the moans and sloppy declarations coming from the room above or next to hers. On the rare occasion they had enough money for a hotel room, she would sit out in the hallway until they were finished. A woman would strut out in tall heels, chewing gum and pulling down the hem of her short, glittery dress. She would look at Julia like the twelve-year-old was diseased and smooth down her hair, and, if the night was still young, probably hope for another job.

Julia always felt bad for the women. She knew they didn’t want to do it, but she understood why they had to. They needed money, and that was the only way they could get it. Plus, they had to spend their nights with evil men like Sebastian Moran.

She couldn’t blame them for getting out of the room as soon as possible. Julia wanted to leave too. She just wasn’t sure how.

A teen in a fading red hoodie tossed a few coins in her can. The change already in it rattled with the new additions.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

The boy stopped. “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

He dug around in his pocket once more and came up with more money.

“I hope it gets better,” he said, crouching down and slipping a few bills into her can.

“God bless you,” Julia replied. She wanted to cry.

“Are you hungry?”

Julia remembered the last time she ate. It was four days ago. She and Moran had been in Guatemala. Now, in Northern Ireland, Moran hadn’t given her her allowance for food yet. He had blown most of their cash on hookers and booze. It was a great way to start a job, Julia thought.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Let me see if I have something in my bag, all right?”

“I couldn’t ask that of you, sir.” Julia absolutely hated lying to these people, but she really was hungry. She couldn’t help but perk up at the thought of food.

The teen slung his backpack off his shoulder and dug through it for a short time. He smiled as he brought out a granola bar and a plastic bag of cookies.

“You can have this. It’s all I’ve got right now.”

Julia sniffed. There were tears pricking her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She gingerly took the food from the boy. He zipped up his backpack, stood up, and looped his arm through one of the straps.

“Wait,” Julia croaked. She held up three of the five cookies that were in the bag. “We can share it if you want.”

The boy smiled but shook his head. “Thanks, but… I’ve got more at home. You should eat.”

“God bless you.”

Julia watched as the teen walked away. He didn’t look back.

The cookies were chocolate.


	4. Two Years, Four Months, and Eight Days Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events that took place before the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Julia Lloyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Reichenbach Fall spoilers!   
> Also some implied child abuse, so if that triggers you, please be aware.  
> This fic is also taking a lot longer to write than I had originally anticipated. I'm also aware that the chapters in this fic are really inconsistent in length, but I can't bring myself to drag it out.  
> Also, if you have any questions, comments, or concerns, feel free to ask!

Moriarty lay bleeding out at his feet, crimson blood trickling from the wound in his head. Sherlock backed away, running his hands through his hair.

James Moriarty was dead. That meant that either Sherlock joined the madman, or his only three friends in the world did so instead.

It’s a simple choice, isn’t it? he thought as he stepped onto the ledge. Even if it means you will lose John.

Of course, Sherlock wasn’t actually going to die. No, he was much too important for that. He still had things to do here, in London. There would be more cases, more murders, more serial killers for him to track down. The world needed Sherlock Holmes, and he was not ready to leave it just yet.

He pulled out his phone. Sherlock just wanted to hear John’s voice one last time before he left. He didn’t know when he would be able to return. The cases, the flat, the violin - he could live without these things. Sherlock just didn’t know if he could live without John.

The doctor is just climbing out of a cab as he lifts his mobile to his ear. “Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now,” ordered Sherlock.

“No, I’m coming in.”

That wouldn’t do. “Just do as I ask! Please.”

Sherlock watched raptly as John turned back, looking around the street.

“Where?” asked the doctor. He walked back to the road as Sherlock had asked.

It hurt Sherlock now, how John wouldn’t even question him. He wanted John to question him. He wanted John to ask why. He wanted John to know why he had to leave. But John couldn’t know. John would want to come with him; John always wanted to come with him. Sherlock was routinely reprimanded for running off without the doctor by his side. The detective didn’t think this would be much different.

“Stop there.”

“Sherlock?” The confusion in John’s voice sent a pang of sorrow straight through Sherlock’s core. He could feel his heart constrict - because he did have one, thank you very much.

“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”

“Oh God.” John’s voice cracked along with some of Sherlock’s resolve.

“I… I can’t come down, so we’ll… we’ll just have to do it like this.”

“What’s going on?”

“An apology. It’s all true.”

“Wh-what?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.” Sherlock glanced around at the body lying behind him.

“Why are you saying this?”

“I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock.”

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly- in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met… the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever,” Sherlock replied simply.

“You could.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh through his nose at John’s unfailingly loyalty. A tear dripped down his chin. When had that happened?

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you,” the detective lied. “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

“No. All right, stop it now.”

“No, stay exactly where you are! Don’t move.”

John held up his hand. “All right.”

Sherlock held his hand out to John. It was the signal. The people on the ground started moving, all according to plan. Perfect.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?” Sherlock nearly winced as his voice became more frantic.

“Do what?”

“This phone call- it’s… it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

John lowered his phone, shaking his head. He brought it back up to his ear. “Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t.”

Sherlock took a long look at John, memorizing his face and stance and the way he carried himself. He dropped his phone onto the roof behind him, and John dropped his in return.

“No. SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock spread his arms, and he fell, hitting the blow-up pad with perfect precision. He clambered off and lay still as a few couple decorated his face and the pavement around him with fake blood. He stuck the squash ball in his armpit and waited for John to get to him.

“I’m a doctor. Let me come through! Let me come through, please.”

There he was. Sherlock kept his eyes open, unblinking. He wanted to see John.

“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend, please.”

Sherlock felt John’s hand grab his wrist, searching for a pulse. He fought to keep tears out of his eyes.

“Please, let me just…” As two people rolled Sherlock onto his back, John let out a strangled little noise. How Sherlock would’ve loved to hear it under different circumstances. Much different, preferably.

“Jesus, no. God, no.”

With that, he was lifted onto the stretcher and rolled away. Three hours later, Sherlock Holmes was officially dead.

The nameless, faceless man who once carried the same title left St. Bart’s hospital for the private air strip where his plane was waiting to take him away.

~*~

“What do you mean he didn’t jump?” Moran growled into the phone. Julia winced at the sound. “You said he didn’t die! How could he be alive if he jumped?”

Julia frowned and chewed on her lip.

“I don’t care about the airbag! Why didn’t you kill him anyway? It was the fucking Iceman, wasn’t it?”

Wishing she could hear the person on the other side of the phone, Julia closed her eyes and steadied her breath. It wouldn’t do to let Moran hear her eavesdropping. She didn’t have to imagine what he would do to her if she was caught.

“Where is he now?”

There was a long pause. Julia saw Moran’s knuckles turn white. She could feel the ghosts of that same grip on her biceps.

“Shit. How many has he got so far?” demanded Moran. “Well, you have to stop him. Easy as that…. What?... Wh- No, I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re ‘too old for this crap.’ Deal with him…. Well, because I don’t want to!”

Someone was threatening Moran, Julia realized. ‘He’ was threatening all of them. He was coming for them. Would he come for her, too?

“He can’t kill all of us. It’s impossible.

He was… killing them? Had someone finally noticed them? It would be hard to connect everyone, Julia supposed, since they really had nothing in common to begin with. Moran was an assassin, yes, but he had his own jobs and his own people to worry about. He didn’t interfere with anyone else’s jobs. There wasn’t ever an opportunity. Two of Moriarty’s employees were never in the same place at the same time unless specifically instructed by Moriarty himself.

Not that Moran had ever told Julia any of this. She was just good at being quiet and not getting caught with her ear against the door.

“Well, he’s not getting to me. Take care of him, and remember - the sooner he’s dead, the better.”

Julia wondered if the man would kill her along with Moran. Would he assume she was working with them, or would he know that she would never have anything to do with them? Would he know that she would rather die than be of any help to them at all?

Would he be worse than Moran?

“I don’t care how. Make it happen. I’ve got to go. The little parasite is listening at the door again.”

She stood quickly and ran to her room, trying to be as silent as possible. Moran followed her with much less enthusiasm. He leaned against the doorway and fixed his dark eyes on her. Julia swallowed her scream as he advanced upon her, a cigarette in one hand and rope in the other.

Hours later, Julia blinked in the darkness, dripping water onto her raw skin. It was a bit difficult to clean the wounds at night, but it was the only time she was sure Moran would leave her alone. He was either sleeping in a room adjacent to hers or pacing the hallways muttering to himself about his next hit, negotiation, or switch.

Julia missed privacy. She missed having books and a house and a bed and clear skin. She was tired of having these nightmares. She was tired of hurting herself and letting Moran hurt her. Julia wanted to leave, but she just didn’t know how. She couldn’t run; she wouldn’t last for long without food or water, and she didn’t want to take her chances with the locals.

It wasn’t as if Moran was going to let her go anytime soon. She knew too much at that point, she guessed. She could tell the police - not that they’d listen to her. Who would? She was a dirty, half-starving little girl covered in scars, put there by both herself and her keeper.

The worst part of it all was that her mother had been the one who left her there with the man. Her mother, who was supposed to love her more than anything else, left her in a taxi years ago so she could run off and do… whatever it was she was doing.

Julia would be surprised if her mother ever came back, and just a little terrified.

 


	5. One Year, Ten Months, and Twelve Days Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events that took place before the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Julia Lloyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No serious warnings for this chapter. There's just a bit of blood.  
> We're almost done! Whew. I can't wait to start posting Promise of Love (the sequel to Promise of Home).

Sherlock stopped talking. He didn’t see the point of speaking if there was no one there to listen to him. Every now and then he had to call Mycroft, but only for updates on his progress. That was fine, though. It wasn’t as if Sherlock has much to say anyway, even if he could find someone who cared.

He was cold, tired, hungry, and sick of killing. It was disgusting, what he was doing. Sherlock had killed so many people, men and women he saw in his dreams, like the one he was having now.

Ryan Montague - known by his coworkers as the Big Guns (very original, Sherlock thought) - smiled at him cruelly, his teeth stained pink with blood. Crimson liquid oozed out of the puncture wound in his stomach. He pressed his hands against the wound, causing blood to flow through his fingers. He brought his hands up to his face and covered it as he shrunk in size and shape.

When the hands were removed, Sari Dulan stared blankly at him, her left eye socket completely empty save for the bullet lodged there. Blood trickled slowly down her cheek. She was weeping, silent and haunting.

“I had to do it,” Sherlock said, trying his best to remain cold. “You worked for Moriarty. You had to be eliminated.”

She stepped towards him, her mouth dropping open in a soundless scream. Sari reached out to him, narrowly missing his shirt collar. Sherlock scrambled away from her.

“You would’ve hurt people. You would’ve hurt John. I couldn’t let you do that. You have to understand. You were a monster.”

“So what does that make you?” demanded a familiar voice behind him.

Sherlock didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. He closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up. He couldn’t take this again. He couldn’t stand to hear what would come next, what would always come next.

“What does that make you, Sherlock?” John repeated, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. If Sherlock had been an idiot, he would’ve thought John was trying to comfort him. But he knew the truth.

“John, I-”

“It makes you just like them, doesn’t it?”

“ _Please_ , listen to-”

It happened like it always did. Sherlock was spun around harshly. John grabbed his collar and pulled him down so their noses were almost touching. It wasn’t just the proximity to the doctor that had Sherlock’s heart beating so fast; he was terrified.

“You’re just like them, Sherlock. You’re a monster, too.”

“No, I’m not. I promise, John. I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t. You like this, don’t you?” John accused, narrowing his eyes. “You like this. It’s fun for you. It’s all a big game.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. Tears burned the back of his eyes. He blinked them back. He wouldn’t cry, not in front of John.

“You’re just like them, Sherlock,” John said. He pulled Sherlock closer, so he was leaning most of his weight against John. His breath ghosted across the detective’s lips. “You’re… a monster… _too_.”

“John-”

The doctor disappeared, and Sherlock fell to the floor. He let the tears fall, knowing that John was right. Of course John was right. He was a monster, even if it was all for his flatmate. He was a monster, and John would never forgive him for it. He would never accept Sherlock again, knowing what he’d done while he was away from England.

But at least John was safe in London. Sherlock was dead; the assassins had been called off. Soon they would all be eliminated. He didn’t have to worry about his doctor.

"Are you sure about that?"

Well, that was new. Sherlock whirled around. There was no one there. His eyes darted here and there, searching wildly for the source of the voice.

"John is safe," he whispered to himself. "He's safe in London."

"No, he's not," the voice sang, and Sherlock jolted awake.

Oh, God, where was he? His vision was blurred, and his stomach was empty. The room he slept in was unfamiliar, and his head was pounding. He was in pain, and he was in some sort of disguise and- and…

He was in Thailand, wasn’t he? Oh, joy, he was.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Why were they so _irri_ -

Ah, yes, the contact lenses. Mycroft had insisted upon them; combined with his freshly-tanned skin - thanks to two months in sunny California - Sherlock was hardly recognizable. He stood on shaky legs and crossed the room. It was an abandoned old apartment complex routinely used by those with nowhere else to go. Sherlock felt almost comfortable there.

As he walked past a blown-out window, his stomach growled, contracting itself. He gritted his teeth and willed his hunger away. Sherlock hadn’t eaten in days. The last time he’d had a chance was last week, when Mycroft brought him in to rest after eliminating Ryan Montague, a CEO in America that supplied weapons to Moriarty’s employees.

Sherlock had eaten a lot. He thought he would be able to make it through this job before needing anything else to fuel him, but apparently the great Sherlock Holmes had made a mistake. Not for the first time, Sherlock wished John was there to assist him. John would’ve made Sherlock eat something at least five days ago.

Shaking the thought out of his head, the detective - because that’s what Sherlock truly was, not this cold-hearted killer he was pretending to be - made his way out to the streets. He sat on a corner near the outskirts of the town, searching up and down the street for his target. When he found Malee Aromdee, he paused and calculated where she’d come from, where she was going, and where she would be in four hours when the sky went dark.

His thought process was thrown slightly off course when a small shape slammed into the woman he was tracking. He smirked as the shape - a child, they looked like, although Sherlock could not determine the gender - shook the woman’s hand enthusiastically. He knew what the child was doing; they were stealing her bracelets.

Clever one, he thought.

Sherlock watched silently as the shape started running in the other direction. He had a feeling John would've wanted to chase after them; Sherlock, however, couldn’t care less. Let the child take her jewelry. Most likely, they needed it more than she did.

Sherlock waited for nearly half an hour, wandering deep in his Mind Palace, before he was interrupted.

The girl - because it was a girl - stood in front of him, her greasy blonde hair cropped close to her head. Her eyes had black bags under them, and her clothes were hanging off her thin frame. The girl's face was thin and gaunt, her eyes bloodshot.

"Here," she said in English. "It's what I could afford."

Sherlock didn't even react. If he ate now, his resolve would weaken. It would be harder to go without food for the rest of his mission.

But the girl would not relent, and Sherlock really was starving. He took the food gratefully and ate it quickly, watching the girl warily from the corner of his eye.

After Sherlock had eaten and the girl had left, he made his way to Aromdee’s residence. It was easy enough to get in the apartment. Unwisely, the woman had no security other than the lock on the door. He walked throughout the apartment, casually making his way to the kitchen. He took out a packet of white powder and dumped the whole thing into the bowl of sugar on the counter.

Sherlock left the apartment with a sick feeling in his stomach and counted the hours until he would have to return.

The next morning, the detective found the limp body of Malee Aromdee slumped on the floor in her living room. Her eyes were open, staring at something behind Sherlock’s shoulder. Her makeup wasn’t done yet, and she was still in her baby pink nightie. A coffee mug was still in her hand, the liquid soaked into her white throw rug.

She must not have noticed the arsenic in her sugar bowl.

Sherlock dumped it, refilled it with pure sugar, and left the apartment. Later, on the private jet to Armenia, he went through his stay in Thailand and deleted everything that wasn’t of some importance.

All he could remember now was sleeping in the cold darkness of an abandoned apartment complex, tracking Aromdee down, and the smell of coffee and death at six o’clock in the morning.

~*~

Julia stopped talking. She didn't see the point of speaking if there was no one there to listen to her. Moran only liked to hear her voice when she screamed. That was fine, though. There wasn't much to say in the first place, even if she could find someone who cared. What would she have to talk about?

Well, she was hungry. She was always hungry, actually, so that wasn't exactly news. Julia was always hungry and always cold and always tired, unless they were somewhere in a warm climate. There, she would just be two of the three: hungry and tired.

Julia hated the day and lived for the darkness of night. It was the only time Moran would leave her alone. She relished the darkness, only sleeping when she couldn't keep her eyelids open any longer.

Moran would wake her only a few hours later, when the sun was beginning to rise and the light just beginning to remind Julia of the life she'd been forced into. In the dark, she could escape.

The nightmares were another reason Julia liked to stay awake. They would come almost every night. Julia found that if she slept deeply enough, she wouldn’t have any dreams at all. She knew that having no dreams at all was better than having bad dreams.

Desperate for food, Julia had resorted to stealing from markets and vendors. It was simple enough, really. Ask for food, hand over a couple of wadded up bills, and run away before they caught you. It wasn't as if they could leave their carts, anyway. And none of them seemed to care once she'd gotten two or three blocks away.

Julia didn't like stealing. She thought it was something Moran would do, and she hated to be like him.

Sometimes, she would bump into people accidentally. Of course, this was received differently in different countries, and Julia had learned quickly that there were certain people no one wanted to anger. Julia also had rules for herself, so she wouldn’t do anything she would regret more than she had to later.

Women with children and other teenagers weren’t the right choice. Mothers had children to feed, and the teens were just like Julia, only a bit more fortunate. She didn’t steal from the sick or elderly for obvious reasons. No, Julia would wait until a businessman or woman passed by her alcove.

She would slip out silently, follow them for a while, and cut through a back alley or two to get ahead of them. It was simple from there. Julia would backtrack, walking in the direction of her target once more. Running from an imaginary danger, Julia would look behind her and crash straight into them.

The woman across from her now swore in Thai.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Julia gushed. “I’m sorry, let me-” She shot to her feet and held out her hand, muttering apologies as she went.

The woman accepted her help and pulled herself up. Julia didn’t let go but grasped her hand in both of hers. She shook it vigorously, earning a glare from the slight woman before her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to run into you.”

As Julia refused to let go of her hand, the woman started to babble in her language. The clasp of the bracelet unhooked easily enough; the owner didn’t even notice when Julia slipped it off her thin wrist. The ring was a bit more difficult to nab, but Julia managed it.

The disheveled woman tore her hand away, huffed, and strutted off. Julia smirked as she slipped the jewelry into her pocket. She’d go to the pawn shop right away, before the woman had time to realize anything was missing.

The girl ran for two blocks in the other direction in case the Thai woman decided to come back with the police. After around ten minutes, Julia made her way to the local pawn shop, which she had been in only once before.

When the shopkeeper started inspecting the ring, Julia was relieved to find it wasn’t a wedding or engagement ring. It was fairly new, as well, so it was safe to assume it wasn’t a family heirloom or something equally important.

Julia received a fair amount of money for the jewelry, though she knew the shopkeeper would sell it for twice the price later that day. She couldn’t blame him; he had to make profit somehow.

Julia walked quickly back to the market and approached a vendor, from whom she bought a ball of sticky rice and a small bowl of chicken curry. She dug into it immediately, letting the hot food burn her tongue.

A homeless man was resting on the sidewalk outside the market. Julia paused, looking him over. His dirt-covered skin was tan, and his eyes were dark and empty. Dark hair covered the lower half of his face, a healthy amount of stubble hiding most of his features. The hair on his head was curly, sticking out every which way.

Julia paused. The man didn’t look like he’d eaten in days.

She recounted her money and walked back to the vendors. She pointed to what she could afford - the smallest bowl of vegetable curry and some leftover sticky rice - and handed the man some of her cash. He shook his head, a large hand still outstretched. Julia dug her hand into her pocket and came up with a few more bills for the man. He handed over the food and turned to help a young mother with an infant nestled to her chest.

Julia walked carefully back to the homeless man. As she neared him, he lifted his eyes to hers. He spat out a Thai greeting in a raspy voice.

“Here,” she offered stiffly, holding out the bowl. “It’s what I could afford.”

Staring at her with furrowed eyebrows, the man shook his head.

“What? Why not?” Julia demanded, not caring that the man probably couldn’t understand her. “It’s good. I didn’t do anything to it.”

Once more, the man shook his head. No.

Julia tapped her eyelid and commanded, “Watch.” She took the fork and scooped up from rice and curry. Making sure the man’s eyes were on her, she put the food in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. She opened her mouth wide, showing off her empty mouth.

“If you still won’t eat it, I will.”

She held her hands out for the last time, and the man took it from her gratefully. He studied her as she took a seat just a few feet away from him. Julia stared straight ahead, focusing on her own food. After a while, the man seemed to accept her presence, and he started eating the curry with enthusiasm.

Julia didn’t speak at all. What could she possibly have to say?

 


	6. Nineteen Minutes Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events that took place before the meeting of Sherlock Holmes and Julia Lloyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter isn't too gory or bloody or anything.  
> In Julia's POV, though, there are some non-con elements. Nothing actually happens, but I should still warn you guys.

Sherlock often thought of John whilst he was traveling. He would see something that reminded him of the doctor, and he would have to stop to breathe deeply to regain his composure. A man with dark brown hair and a bushy beard wore a ghastly green jumper reminiscent of John’s. The woman walking by him on the street was exactly the type of woman John would take on a date - short, unremarkably pretty, seemingly dull.

Just a few weeks ago, he’d nearly passed out from hunger before he remembered to eat. Without John there to remind him, Sherlock just… forgot. It was hard to remember such trivial things as food or sleep when there were so many people to dispose of.

In all honesty, Sherlock hated what he was doing. He hated killing, hated the blood, hated the cold hands and lifeless eyes. He tracked down killers, for God’s sake; he had them arrested. It had been his _job_ , and now he was reduced to being like the murderers he helped put behind bars. It was disgusting. Sherlock could still feel the blood on his fingers. He rubbed his hands together absently.

The first kill hadn’t been so violent, really. Just a quick bullet to the head. Simple enough, barely any trouble to carry out. He hadn’t slept for two days after that, being fussed over and disguised to blend into the Serbian mafia. A few semi-permanent tattoos here, a couple of fake scars there, a bottle of blond hair dye, and he was good to go. After Mycroft’s people had finished changing nearly every aspect of his appearance, they’d shoved him into a room with nothing but a large bed and a small table with only one chair.

Sherlock had, in a nutshell, shut himself down. He’d slept for about twenty hours, and, when he’d woken up, he was shoved onto a plane and taken to Serbia, where he put use the Serbian he’d learned in the forty-eight hours previous. It had taken him two months two climb the ladder of the Serbian branch of Moriarty’s network. It was over quickly.

Now, on his last hit, Sherlock was waiting impatiently for his next target in one of the crappiest towns in Germany.

He had been sitting on this decrepit street corner for nearly a week before he first saw Sebastian Moran stumbling drunkenly past him and into one of the crumbling houses on his block. It didn’t seem like the man was actually doing anything; he drank, he gambled, and he brought home prostitutes.

Sherlock was beginning to wonder why Sebastian Moran was so important to Moriarty, anyway. He was a useless Brazilian oaf that probably wouldn’t even be that much of a trouble for Sherlock to kill. He just had to wait for the right time.

Every afternoon for three days, Sherlock watched the ex-assassin stagger back to his hovel, shitfaced and braying like a donkey, usually with a woman on his arm.

Today, however, Moran was walking back to the abandoned house alone. He was laughing to himself, muttering about having a toy at home. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and, after he saw Moran disappear into the house, he stood. Stretching his arms behind him, he sighed quietly. He bent backwards, cracking his back and loosening his joints.

It took him no time at all to pick the flimsy lock on the door. As he held it open, he heard Moran’s voice drift down the staircase. Still talking to himself, then. Sherlock let the door slam closed, not caring that it brought attention to himself. He wanted the attention. Moran was drunk off his arse; he wouldn’t be a real threat. All Sherlock had to do was lure him downstairs, which proved to be easier than he anticipated.

The man shakily made his way downstairs. Sherlock hid behind a wall and stomped his feet, effectively drawing Moran into an adjacent room. The assassin sauntered into the room, obviously trying to sober up to confront him. However, he failed to notice Sherlock pressed against the wall.

When Moran’s back was turned, Sherlock took his blade from his back pocket, flipped it open, and dragged it smoothly across the other man’s neck.

~*~

There was a homeless man on their block.

Well, there were plenty of homeless people on their block. They were in one of the shitholes of Germany, a little town with crumbling buildings and collapsing economy. It was hard to find any job, and virtually everyone was starving. So yes, there were plenty of homeless people on their block. But they moved around. They never stayed for long.

This man stayed exactly where he was, resting with his back against the wall of the dilapidated old church across the street and two houses down. He had been there when she woke up in the morning and when she went to bed at night. It would have been almost comforting - his consistency, that is - if it hadn’t been so suspicious.

Julia saw him every time she looked out the window in her room. Rather, the room Moran had shoved her in. He wasn’t very close to the house they were inhabiting, but he was close enough that Julia knew he was there. He had been there since they’d holed themselves up in the abandoned house in the first place.

Moran hadn’t cared. He’d rolled his eyes and left the house, locking her in her room. That was three hours ago.

Julia heard the door slam downstairs. She set her jaw and rubbed her forearms where Moran had dug cigarettes into her skin. The lock on her door clicked, and the door opened. Sebastian Moran stood in the doorway, a half-empty beer bottle in his hand.

Julia stood quickly, turning away from the window. She bit her lip, stopping only when she tasted the tang of blood in her mouth.

“Y’know,” Moran started, his eyes following Julia as she backed away from him, “I was… was jus’ down the street there. Was lookin’ to pick up a… a whore for the night.”

Moran flung his arm out to the side, gesturing to the street below. Julia flinched and backed herself against the wall. Moran staggered towards her. He placed his hands on either side of her head. Julia could smell the beer on his breath. She wanted to gag.

“That got me to thinkin’, see? I got a play thing right here, don’ I?” Moran grabbed Julia’s forearm and shook her, slamming her against the wall. “I got a play thing that’s all mine. One that hasn’t even been touched before.”

A ball of cold dread settled itself in Julia’s stomach. Panic wrapped around it and crept into her heart. She was going to puke. Julia was going to puke all over Moran, and he would hold her down and burn her skin and then go ahead and do whatever he wanted to do to her anyway.

“You can’t,” Julia whimpered. “You can’t, you can’t.”

“I can do whatever I want to you, girl.”

Julia shouted as her keeper shoved a hand under her shirt, rubbing her stomach in what was meant to be a pacifying rhythm. A sour taste made itself known in the back of her mouth, and she knew she was going to be sick.

She clawed at his arms, at the hand holding her in place. Blood seeped up from the scratch marks she left. Moran tightened his grip around her arm and growled.

“Naughty, naughty, sweetheart.” He grabbed both her thighs and lifted, and she was forced to either fall or wrap her legs around his waist. “You can’t fight back. _That’s an order_.”

Julia shook her head limply. “No, _please_.”

“You wanna have some fun?”

“No!” Julia cried. “Don’t, please. Please don’t hurt me. Please.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

“No! No, no, no, no, no, please!” Julia sobbed. “Wait, stop! Stop, did you hear that? What was that? Moran, please! There’s something downstairs!”

Moran paused, his hand on Julia’s throat. He cocked his head, listening for any signs of life on the floor below them. Julia glanced around the room, searching for anything she could use to fight back. Her gaze led her to the window, and she realized with a start that the man leaning against the church was gone.

“There was a man!” she said. “There was a man outside, and now he’s gone. You have to go check. I think he’s in the house. Please.”

Moran nodded, slowly letting Julia’s legs slide to the floor. As soon as her feet hit solid ground, Julia let out a small sigh.

Blessedly, there was a creak and the crash of the back door downstairs.

“Goddamn,” muttered Moran. “You’re right. Stay here.”

Julia nodded without a word as Moran stumbled back down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post another fic next Saturday. Here's the order of the fics so it's clear (because I'm posting this in a weird, convoluted way):  
> Promise of Home (First book)  
> Broken Promises (Prequel)  
> Promises Made (In between the first and second book)  
> Promise of Love (Second book)


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